


The Last Alliance of Men and Elves

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 3434, several factions band together to take down Sauron's armies in an all-or-nothing war for the future of their civilizations - but that doesn't mean they always get along. The bonds of the Alliance will be tested from its formation to the bitter end of the seven-year siege of Barad-dur. Told through multiple perspectives, from young Silvan archer and Gondorian squire to High King of the Noldor and legendary First Age war hero, the the story of the Last Alliance unfolds as it makes or breaks the lives of its members. (this fic is a few years old and on indefinite hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imladris

The morning of their departure was dark and cloudy. Soldiers and healers that had crowded the halls and courtyards of Imladris for years had simply vanished, leaving behind an oppressive silence. Leaning out her open bedroom window Elenailin could still see the army, a dark mass moving slowly but surely south and east to Gondor.

A cold gust of wind made her shiver, and she offered a silent prayer to the Valar. _Please, keep back the rain. Let them travel in as much comfort as they may._ It seemed a frivolous thing to ask, but fretting over the journey kept her from dwelling too much on what awaited them at the destination.

She stood at the window and watched as the wind buffeted her dark hair into a tangled mess. Only when her teeth began to chatter did she turn away and close the shutters. She sat on the bed and picked up a beautiful silver hairbrush from the bedside table. Lady Galadriel had given it to her only a few days before, claiming that she would have no use for it on the front. Elenailin studied it, turning it over and examining the intricate design on the back: two trees with entwined branches surrounded by patterns of vines and flowers. One of the trees was merely an outline in the silver of the rest of the brush, but the other had been inlaid with gold. The thing was heavy in her hand, and its weight seemed somehow to speak of great age; Elenailin had a feeling that the trinket was far older than she could possibly imagine. 

Slowly and meticulously, she worked the tangles out of her hair. Eventually her hands started to shake, and she had to put down the brush. It shone untarnished against the rich green of the bedspread, a beacon in the gloom of the morning. She sat there and stared at it as the trembling slowly took over her entire body. 

The past few years had been difficult. Elenailin had fled her besieged homeland and traveled hundreds of miles with her unborn child. She had delivered her firstborn in a strange land among people she had never met, with Isildur the only familiar face by her side. She had learned very quickly the proper way for a king’s wife to behave around other royalty, yet had languished in frustration while the leaders of the Alliance struggled to resolve their differences and gain allies and resources. She realized now that these trials were nothing in light of those to come.

She had agreed with Isildur when he suggested it was best to remain in Imladris with their child. He was going into battle, as were his older sons. There was a risk, he had told her, and though he would endeavor to return to her, he would feel safer knowing that his wife and youngest child were safe. Though Imladris would be virtually undefended once the army moved out, it was well-hidden and the strength of the Enemy would be focused on his own borders. Elenailin understood this, and she trusted Isildur’s judgement.

But she had not been prepared for the loneliness that had settled upon her as she watched her husband ride away, or for the helpless, indeterminate wait that was all she had to look forward to. Apart from her son, she was the only human left in Imladris, and few elves remained, mostly children and other non-combatants. Even many of the women had gone, most as healers but others, like the Lady Galadriel, as warriors in their own right. She had been absent from Gondor for five long years; how much longer would it be before she saw her country again? 

The waiting would be the worst part, sitting and minding her child for Valar knew how many years in a ghost town masquerading as a refuge. How could she bear idling away in safety while everyone she cared about fought for their lives? What sort of a life was that?

The rain began to fall, striking the glass of the window in a harsh cacophony that set Elenailin’s teeth on edge. Suddenly she heard several high-pitched shrieks issuing from outside her window, and hurried to see what was wrong. In the courtyard below, a collection of elven children dashed about, leaping and dancing in the downpour and getting thoroughly soaked. Among them she could just make out her own son, dark like the Noldorin children, though smaller and clumsier, jumping into puddles with gleeful force. 

And Elenailin answered herself. It was a life she had to live for her son, so that he could grow up in safety instead of on a warfront, and so that at least one of Isildur’s heirs survived the coming disaster. The rain was surely a poor omen; the war could only get worse from here. But at least Valandil would be safe.


	2. The Eastern Road

“Tired?” said a familiar voice. Elrond started; Isildur had ridden up beside him as he patrolled on horseback, keeping an eye on the wide, empty land to the south of the great army. The man watched him expectantly, eyebrows raised in the mocking fashion that was the closest he ever came to smiling.

Elrond suppressed a slight shudder. Despite having spent the past three years in the constant company of Isildur and his family, the resemblance could still take him by surprise. Elendil looked the most like his illustrious ancestor, but his son had the voice. Sometimes Elrond was gripped by the overwhelming urge to close his eyes while his friend talked and imagine he was hearing Elros instead. And on those rare occasions when Isildur adopted a playful, joking tone, the similarity became too uncanny for words. 

He never discussed the topic of his brother with Isildur, however, so he merely smiled wearily at his friend. “I did not sleep much last night, I’m afraid. Too many last-minute preparations. The last thing I want is Imladris falling into disrepair while I am away.”

“I have no doubt that your people will manage perfectly well,” Isildur assured him. “The only cause for trouble that I can see is if Elenailin fails to keep control of Valandil. If the child somehow manages to escape his mother’s watchful eye, you may well return to find your home in shambles.” Something that was almost a smile crossed the man’s stern face at the thought of his wife and son, but it vanished an instant later. “Be glad that you have had time to prepare for your absence. I left my home in haste, with no opportunity to warn my people of the coming dangers. I would not be surprised to find it…greatly changed, after so many years.”

“Your brother has kept Gondor safe for this long,” Elrond pointed out, “and soon he will have the combined strength of the Alliance to aid him.” 

Isildur glanced around, making sure that the column of marching soldiers was well out of earshot. “Aye, he has,” he said, his face returning to its usual expression of grim determination. “Without Anárion, Gondor would have fallen long ago. He is surely the strongest of all of us.” Though he spoke with affection, Elrond noticed just a hint of the awe that suffused the tones of most of the Gondorians when they spoke of their younger lord. Not for the first time, he wondered what could possibly make a man into such a highly regarded leader and family member. Elendil was viewed in much the same way, but with a more distant reverence. And Isildur - well, his men would have died for him, but their faces did not immediately brighten at the mention of his name.

Isildur, unaware of Elrond’s distraction, continued talking. “But you have not spoken to him as I have. He knows that the army is on its way, and he assures me that all will be well until we arrive, but if they cannot hold, if Osgiliath falls before aid reaches them, then Gondor will be overrun long before we have a chance to save it.” His voice took on a note of desperation. “Five years is a long time. Perhaps not to someone such as yourself, my long-lived friend, but the years have taken a hard toll on Gondor’s resources and strength.”

“Do you have any reason to think that they will not be able to hold?” Elrond asked. 

“No. No specific evidence, at least. Meneldil has expressed concerns that Anárion and Calerian may be understating their own peril in order to keep us from losing hope. Meneldil knows his father and sister very well, of course, but he has a tendency to worry. I fear that he is like me in that regard.”

Though he had met the man nearly five years ago, Elrond still did not feel that he really knew Meneldil. Anárion’s only son was handsome and golden-haired, said to be the image of his father as a younger man. He had little in common with his father’s legendary personality, however; he was respected, but seemed quiet and unassuming, almost timid. As Anárion’s representative Isildur consulted him before all decisions, but he rarely voiced opinions at councils, instead relaying his thoughts through his uncle. On the other hand, when he did speak, the depth of his reasoning and understanding indicated a sharp mind and a keen grasp of the situation. Elrond knew there must be more to the man than was readily apparent. 

“No matter how dire the situation in Gondor may be, we can do nothing for them now. Our only option is to trust in their strength and get to them as quickly as possible.” Elrond’s words of support sounded hollow to his own ears, but Isildur seemed to draw some comfort from them. 

“You are right, of course,” the man said. “Truly, it is a relief to be going back at last, no matter what I might find there.” He gazed out across the land before them, to where the foothills of the Misty Mountains rose in the distance, before speaking again very softly in Adûnaic. “When I left my home I never intended to be gone for so long.”

Elrond suddenly felt awkward, as though he had intruded on a private conversation. Encounters with Númenoreans in the distant past, as well as the language’s presence in Imladris while Elendil’s army had been camped there, had left Elrond with a good command of Adûnaic, but he had rarely heard Isildur use his cradle-tongue outside of occasional conversations with his men. 

Not only that, but he thought he had felt in the man’s words a strain of deeper longing, the ache of a loss far more permanent even than the looming threat of Gondor’s destruction: the loss of the place where he had lived most of his life, and now had no hope of ever seeing again. Isildur never spoke of Númenor. The other exiles (including Elendil) often did, but Isildur was not the sort of man who shared his troubles with others, except possibly his brother and his wife. Elrond had not found out that Elenailin was Isildur’s second wife and that this was the root of his occasional disagreements with his younger sons until the family had been living in Imladris for more than a month. Even then, it had been Celebrían who finally told him, deep as she was in Elenailin’s confidence. 

He looked again at Isildur’s face, so very like Elros’ in many small ways. Clean-shaven: he remembered how his brother had often jokingly lamented his lack of a beard, saying that it kept his council members from taking him seriously even though he was decades older than most of them. And there was that oddly Noldorin cast to his face, along with the dark hair and the deep gray eyes. Glorfindel, after meeting Isildur for the first time, had remarked with astonishment that his appearance, like Elendil’s, held traces of Turgon that had somehow endured through the centuries. People had often said that Elros in his youth looked remarkably like his great-grandfather.

With Isildur’s father, the resemblance was even worse. Elrond had been in Mithlond visiting Círdan when Elendil’s four battered ships landed nearby. Seeing the ragged, sea-tossed man wearing the sword that Maedhros had given to Elros so many years ago, Elrond had been convinced for one terrible moment that the man was his brother, somehow miraculously returned to him. He had long since gotten used to the strangeness of it, and had come to admire Elendil for his leadership and his remarkable accomplishments. The High King of Gondor and Arnor was certainly a match for Gil-galad in terms of royal presence and bearing, helped by the fact that he was taller than any living elf and like Gil-galad possessed blood from several royal lines.

What Elendil truly had that Gil-galad did not was the complete loyalty of his people. The remnants of the Noldor and the Falathrim followed him gladly, but Lindon had been divided by barely-suppressed conflict from the beginning. Though they had at last gained the support of the elves across the mountains, some of whom had been ruled by Gil-galad once, their allegiance to the king would be tenuous at best. Certainly nothing compared to the regard the Gondorians had for their distant yet revered high king.

There were many days of travel ahead before they were to unite with their elven allies, along with a smaller force of dwarves who had responded to a request for help from Círdan with surprising enthusiasm. Elrond was not sure how or why the ancient Sinda had maintained contact with the dwarves, but Gil-galad had not seemed very surprised, and Elrond had long ago given up doubting Círdan’s ability to do anything. 

Despite the capable presence of Círdan and the calming influence of Celeborn, however, Elrond could not view his imminent reunion with Oropher with anything other than dread. He had not seen Oropher or his son since the incident in Mithlond centuries ago, but Elrond did not expect time to soften the king’s opinion of him. 

Isildur’s voice brought him back to the present, though Elrond soon realized that the man was not speaking to him, but hailing the young soldier riding towards them.

“Ohtar!”

The younger man slowed to their pace when he reached them, bowing first to his master, then to Elrond. Though he was tall and stocky, Isildur’s dark-haired squire rode quite gracefully. He addressed Isildur, “My lord, His Majesty and High King Gil-galad have called a halt. They have something important to discuss with you. I believe that King Elendil may have news from Gondor.”

The swiftness of Isildur’s response betrayed the anxiety that did not show in his face or voice. “Thank you, Ohtar. Take us to them.”

They turned and rode back towards the army, which had indeed stopped marching and was beginning to settle down for the night. Elrond couldn’t help feeling slightly unsettled. Isildur’s anxieties seemed to be rubbing off on him, and his own reservations about leaving Imladris still lingered. Erestor was a capable youngster, well suited to the task of governing the valley in Elrond’s absence. He had come so far since his days as an orphaned refugee from Eregion, and his unflagging work ethic was now finally paired with some measure of self-confidence. Celebrían had inherited the intelligence of both her parents, though she had her father’s temperament: calm and gentle, but with an unbreakable core of steely resolve. In the past few years she and Elrond had grown closer than he’d ever dreamed they would, and before he left she had made it quite clear that he was to return in one piece. For the first time, he felt like he truly had a reason to come home. 

Surely they would be far safer in the hidden valley than he would once the army reached Mordor - so why was he so afraid for them?

The three riders halted and dismounted when they reached the column. Isildur handed his horse’s reins to Ohtar. “Care for Almariel, and for Lord Elrond’s horse,” he ordered the squire. “Get Estelmo to help you.” 

Ohtar nodded and bowed again, taking Nólimon’s reins from Elrond and leading the horses away. Isildur and Elrond glanced at each other.

“I should look for my father,” Isildur said. The look on his face was almost apologetic, though his eyes blazed with nervous anticipation. Elrond nodded.

“And I ought to find Gil-galad.” He did not particularly feel like speaking to his king at this very moment, but he was almost as anxious for news as Isildur. “I hope the tidings from Gondor are good.”

“Thank you,” said Isildur fervently, and he turned and hurried away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is meant to be very long, and will probably update sporadically. I apologize in advance for that, but I'm usually pretty busy with school and stuff. I'll do my best not to wait too long in between chapters, and we'll see how it goes.


	3. Far From Home

Meneldil closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again, willing himself not to show any sign of weariness. He had tossed and turned all the previous night, unable to get the image of the palantir out of his mind. He had not used the seeing-stone himself in weeks, but for some reason he kept remembering something that had never happened: the orb of Minas Ithil glowing red and growing steadily brighter until it blinded him. The vision left him with a clinging sense of unease.

Calerian’s face appeared unbidden in his mind. He could almost hear her voice, her laugh, as though she stood beside him. _Everything makes you uneasy. It’s not a bad thing; I am far too busy to worry, so I count on you to do it for me._ How many times had he heard those words? He knew he would give anything to hear them again.

His sister was right, of course; he worried about everyone and everything. He had never understood why or how the rogue tendency to paranoia had entered Anárion’s line. His father, the eternal optimist, had somehow produced a son who viewed the world with an eye for anything that could possibly go wrong.

Even the elves made him uneasy. This meeting was perhaps not the ideal time to think of it, but Meneldil found himself wishing he could avert his eyes from the people before him. He stood next to Isildur, who was beside his father. Elendur and his brothers stood behind them, along with Elendil’s general Veantirmo. Though Elendur was older than his cousin, Meneldil officially outranked him as Anárion’s representative. Directly across from them, on the other side of Elendil’s tent, stood Gil-galad and Círdan, and behind them Inglor, Elrond, Galdor, and Celeborn. 

Meneldil had lost his initial distrust of the elves - he had never met one before journeying to Arnor, for Gil-galad’s folk rarely ventured so far south, and those who lived in the great forests kept to themselves - but something uncanny about them still set him on edge. He knew that they differed wildly in age, but apart from Círdan with his long, silver beard, Meneldil would not have known that any of them were older than the others had he not learned their histories. 

“Elendil.” Gil-galad wore his long, dark hair loose, except for one small braid wound with gold that hung to the left of his face. Meneldil still felt more than a little intimidation when he looked at the tall elven-king. “You have spoken to your son?” 

“I have,” Elendil replied, almost smiling. Meneldil’s grandfather, though taller than Gil-galad, had never seemed remotely frightening to him; even his deep voice was comforting. From the moment they arrived in the north he had felt that he knew the man well, though they had encountered each other only a few times since Meneldil’s infancy. “Anárion and Calerian have been appraised of our current position and future plans. They assure me that it is well within their power to hold Osgiliath until we can get there.”

Though his stony-faced uncle’s expression did not change, Meneldil could see Isildur relax slightly when he heard these words. 

“We will do everything we can to hasten our arrival,” Círdan said, his voice a low boom that dredged up Meneldil’s deep-seated early memories of the sea. Though all of the elves had strange eyes, his were the only ones that seemed truly ancient, partially hidden beneath rather impressive silver brows. 

“Thank you,” said Isildur. “Gondor’s fate is crucial to the fate of this Alliance.”

More than anything, Meneldil wished he could have been the one to talk to them. Nobody knew Calerian as well as he did, and few could say they knew Anárion better. If there had been any hesitation in their insistence that Gondor could hold, if they had stretched the truth even a little, he would have known it. 

_And what good would that do? It would change nothing._ The no-nonsense voice in his head sounded, as always, a little like Varya. _No matter what they may be covering up, there is nothing you can do for them except reach them as quickly as possible._

It was sensible advice, of course. He forced himself not to think of the fact that he had had no word of his wife in five years, and tried to turn his attention back to the two kings. Still, as he followed his uncle out of the tent after the meeting had concluded, he found that he could not remember much of what had been said after Elendil’s initial news. 

~

Meneldil leaned against a tree, watching the smoke from the campfire drift up into the dark, clear sky. Two elves sat next to the fire, Elrond and Glorfindel, both members of Gil-galad's inner circle. The talked quietly enough that Meneldil could only catch an occasional phrase, but it hardly mattered; he could not understand them. 

They were speaking in Quenya, a rare thing to hear in the elven camp, even though it was the old language of the Noldor. Meneldil understood no more than a few words of the tongue, for he had never studied it as his father had. There had been little time for such things while he was growing up during Gondor's early days, and he did not have Calerian’s gift for languages. He knew that it had once been banned by a king of the Sindar during the First Age, and although the ban was no longer observed, the language had fallen out of everyday use. Still, he occasionally heard these two using Quenya for private conversations. 

Like all the elves, both of them unnerved him, though in very different ways. Glorfindel was tall and golden-haired, and rumor had it that he’d died killing a Balrog during the fall of Gondolin and been brought back to life on the orders of the Valar so that he could fight again in Ennor. Meneldil had privately been rather skeptical of these stories at first, but Isildur and Elendil had confirmed the truth. Even if they hadn’t, Meneldil would have found it hard to doubt after spending a few months in Glorfindel’s company. 

Though the elf was clearly one of Gil-galad’s most important subordinates, he did not seem to have an official rank beyond being terrifyingly good with a sword. He was friendly and quick to laugh, but prone to strange moods that shifted as swiftly and as often as the wind, and Meneldil thought he had glimpsed a sort of madness lurking in his too-bright eyes. He supposed that being brought back to fight again after such a violent death would do things to a person, and that it probably wasn’t the elf’s fault, but Meneldil gave him a wide berth nonetheless. 

Elrond was shorter and slender, with dark hair and unreadable grey eyes. According to Isildur he was rather young for an elf, the youngest of Gil-galad’s advisors. The reserved, courteous brother of the founder of Numenor looked nothing like Elendil, who supposedly resembled Elros Tar-Minyatur a great deal - of course, none of the stories Meneldil had heard had ever said that the twins were identical. If Elendil's likeness bothered Elrond, he had not shown it, but then Meneldil had only rarely seen the elf looking happy. Elrond was polite enough, and seemed to have genuinely befriended Isildur during their time in Imladris, but Meneldil could never shake the feeling that Gil-galad’s herald hid more than he revealed. 

Meneldil wondered whether he ought to find another place to watch the stars and worry in peace, one where he would not be disturbing any private conversations (albeit ones that he could not understand), but before he had settled on anything he heard a sound behind him. He turned to see someone approaching him out of the darkness. 

“Meneldil,” Elendur greeted him quietly. Meneldil’s cousin looked a great deal like his grandfather, though there were hints of Lady Saríncë’s sharper features in his face. Elendur’s mother had died almost forty years ago, and Isildur had remarried some fifteen years past. Elendur got along surprisingly well with Elenailin, all things considered, and unlike his younger brothers had never expressed anger at Isildur for marrying again. But even Aratan and Ciryon had largely come to terms with the situation, and if Elendur found it odd that he now had a brother young enough to be his son, he never showed it. 

“Elendur,” said Meneldil. “I haven’t seen you since before we left Imladris.”

“I’ve been busy, and I know you have as well,” Elendur said rather brusquely. “What did you think of Grandfather’s announcement? I expect you’re glad to be returning home after all these years.” His face was turned away and obscured by shadows, and his voice had a flat, closed quality to it that made it impossible for Meneldil to tell what he was thinking.

“And you are not?” Meneldil asked mildly. “Glorithil and Rindisil will be glad to know you are safe, I think. As will your aunt and uncle.” Few people gave him as much cause for concern as his oldest cousin - and these worries, unlike most of the others, were shared by Calerian. Elendur was Isildur’s closest confidant, and it showed; he was grim, pragmatic, and responsible to a fault, but occasionally something dangerously close to despair reared its ugly head. 

“As far as I know, my home still lies in ruins. And I very much doubt that I will see Glorithil or Rindisil upon our return,” he said, still sounding oddly emotionless. “We are not likely to venture as far west as Minas Anor. She will not want to leave the fortress without him, and he will certainly be in no shape to travel.”

Rindisil, Elendur’s closest friend since boyhood, had married Glorithil, Meneldil’s oldest sister and Elendur’s other best friend. Though he lived at Minas Anor with his wife, Rindisil had led reinforcements to Minas Ithil shortly before the fortress fell and been badly wounded in the attack. He had survived, but at the cost of most of his left leg. Meneldil silently cursed himself for even bringing it up; he knew that Elendur blamed himself for what had befallen his friend, who had fought beside him in defense of the city. 

“Do you truly believe that we will arrive in Gondor in time to save them?” Elendur asked. “It is a testament to your father’s will and bravery that they have survived this long, but it cannot last. And even if we manage to save Gondor, do you really think Sauron’s great nation will fall? We are still hopelessly outmatched.” 

His cousin fell silent, and Meneldil searched his mind for some argument that would bring Elendur out of his own dark thoughts. As usual, nothing occurred to him, so he settled for changing the subject. “Where’s Estelmo now?”

“With Ohtar,” Elendur replied, his face softening slightly. “Father is still in conference with Gil-galad, but I told both the youngsters to get some rest. They have worked hard these past few months, and it’s only going to get worse from here.” 

Meneldil smiled to himself. Elendur’s squire was the orphaned son of a man Elendur had fought beside for many years, and Meneldil knew he felt responsible for the young man’s well-being. Estelmo, for his part, was equally devoted to his lord, and often shared Meneldil’s worries about Elendur’s mental state. Meneldil liked the serious, earnest young man, who (along with Ohtar) was a close friend to his son Cemendur.

“I imagine they are eager to return to Gondor,” Meneldil said.

“They are, perhaps even more than they let on,” said Elendur. “Estelmo asks after your son and Faelros - Calerian’s assistant, I am sure you remember her - whenever he hears that we’ve spoken to Anárion. Ohtar in particular seems very concerned for the young lady.” He smiled a little, then looked suddenly concerned. “We would have heard if anything had happened to them, don’t you think? Anárion and Calerian would not have kept such a thing from us.”

Momentary panic seized Meneldil, but he quickly forced it back. “Of course they would not have kept it from us.” Calerian and his father might try to downplay their own peril, but he knew that if anything had happened to Cemendur they would not have been able to hide it.


	4. On the Front

Someone was gently shaking her awake, and a voice near her ear said, “Faelros.” She raised her head slowly, blinking in the dim light. For a disorienting moment she had no idea where she was, but then she saw Calerian standing beside her, placing a lit candle on the battered oaken desk where Faelros had moments ago been resting her head. Looking down, she saw the stack of papers, now rather rumpled, that she had clearly been using as a pillow. She had fallen asleep in Calerian’s study.

“Oh no, my lady, I am sorry,” she said, trying to straighten the papers with fumbling fingers and stifling a yawn, moving slowly in the daze of sleep. “It was so late and I was nearly finished and I thought that if I could just get these done it would save you having to get up before dawn to do them yourself and I know you hardly ever sleep these days and I don’t even remember closing my eyes but I must have...” she looked up as Calerian’s small, sure hands took the mangled papers from her. Her mistress’ face was calm, the flickering candlelight almost concealing the dark shadows under her eyes. 

“Do not worry,” she said. “I have other reasons to be awake at this hour. It is not yet dawn. You have done enough for one night, Faelros.” She pulled her groggy assistant to her feet. “Get some rest.”

Too tired to protest, Faelros allowed herself to be steered towards the narrow bed that Calerian kept in one corner of the study in case she needed to stay there overnight. Faelros knew that her mistress slept there most nights, if she slept at all; Calerian’s own quarters in the palace were simply too far away from the garrison to be of much use, and unlike Lord Anárion she did not have her own living space in the fortress. The bed was nearly too short for Faelros, who stood a few inches taller than her mistress, and covered by a thick, patchwork quilt of swirling blue and yellow designs. It would have looked terribly out of place in any palace, but Calerian had once told her that it had been made for her by her sister. 

As Faelros lay down on the mattress and pulled the soft quilt over herself, the question slipped out. “Why did your sister make you this? Where does a member of the royal family learn to quilt?” If she had been more awake she would never have asked such a thing, but Calerian only smiled. 

“She learned from my mother, who grew up a peasant on the banks of the Siril. The early days in Gondor were hard for everyone, and the more practical skills we learned, the better off we were.”

By the time she had finished speaking, Faelros’ eyes were closed. Calerian stroked her young assistant’s hair, then walked silently back to her desk. Lighting another candle, she settled into the hard-backed chair to finish the reports.

~

Faelros woke to find Cemendur sitting on the foot of the bed, staring out the open window across the rooftops of Osgiliath. Gondor’s greatest city was nearly empty; all civilians who were not employed by the army in some way had evacuated within the first two years, and many of the dwellings had fallen into slight disrepair. Though by now she was used to the emptiness of the streets, the sight still reminded her of her first trip to Osgiliath, when she had seen the great river Anduin and met Ohtar and Estelmo...

No, she would not allow herself to think of them. There were far more immediate things in need of her attention. She sat up, and Cemendur turned to look at her. His golden hair, the exact same shade as that of his father and grandfather, was uncombed. He wore, as always, the well-worn uniform of a soldier of Gondor, with nothing to distinguish him from any other young man of his rank save the gold ring on his finger that bore the sun symbol of the House of Anárion. 

Though his appearance was perfectly ordinary, something about him seemed different. Faelros stared at him until she realized what it was: he was not wearing his sword. She could not remember the last time she had seen him without a weapon close at hand. 

Peering out of the window again, she suddenly realized that it must be nearly midday. She threw back the covers and tumbled out of bed. Startled, Cemendur jumped to his feet.

“Why did you not wake me?” she asked, frantically trying to straighten her clothes and braid her tangled red hair. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“Only a few minutes,” he assured her, hiding a smile as he leaned over to make the bed. “Lady Calerian told me to let you wake up on your own, and to bring you some breakfast.” He gestured towards the desk, where a piece of hard bread and some dried meat sat next to a cup of water. She gulped it down gratefully, then began devouring the food. “There’s no need to hurry,” he said, looking slightly alarmed. “She would have my head if you were to choke to death. Besides, I suspect that the only reason she gave me this errand was to get rid of me.” 

Faelros stopped eating and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the window. “Only that she burst into Lord Anárion’s study today and the first thing she did was order me out. I think she only gave me a job to do so that I would not be suspicious. That, and the fact that as I left, I looked back and I swear I saw them going into the back room.”

“You mean - you think there’s news?” Faelros asked, a mixture of anxiety and excitement welling up within her. “From which side? Lady Sirilien? The king?” 

“I don't know.” He stopped pacing, but the look that passed between them told her all she needed to know: he was just as nervous as she was. Five years of such worries had made voicing them to one another unnecessary. 

“What were my lady’s orders for me after I woke up?” Faelros asked. Cemendur shrugged. 

“She gave me none. She must have been too distracted to think of it. Faelros, this does not bode well for -”

“Then I must find her and ask her what she requires of me today,” Faelros interrupted him, heading for the door. “You should accompany me, Squire Cemendur. No doubt Lord Anárion has orders for you as well.”

It finally dawned on Cemendur what she intended to do, and he could not help smiling a little at her daring. Faelros grinned back, glad as she always was for the chance to make her gloomy friend smile. She strode purposefully from the room and he followed.

Despite her best efforts, her dread mounted as they neared Lord Anárion’s rooms at the end of the long hall. She knew that both Lady Calerian and her father consulted the Osgiliath-stone fairly regularly, but rarely at the same time. It would not be a routine message from Lady Sirilien in Minas Anor, or a casualty report to Lord Isildur. This was something bigger and more urgent. 

_Please_ , she thought, _let it be good news. Let today bring change for the better. Eru knows we need it. We cannot go on like this forever._

They reached the door and stood side-by-side before it for several long minutes, both unwilling to knock. Faelros strained to hear any sign of what might be happening inside, but she learned nothing. Suddenly, footsteps sounded just inside the door, and people began speaking in low voices that she recognized. 

Then, quite unexpectedly, the door sprang open, and the two young people leapt aside in shock. Calerian stood before them, looking as plain and somber as always in a dark blue dress with her brown hair tightly pinned up, with no jewelry or adornments to speak of save her ring. She looked puzzled for a moment at the sight of them, then her face resumed its customary businesslike expression. “How fortunate. I was just about to send for you both. Cemendur, take this message to Captain Baranor. Wait until he has read it, and then accompany him back here.” She handed him a folded and sealed note. He took the piece of paper, bowed, and hurried away, stealing a wide-eyed glance back at Faelros as he departed. 

The girl curtseyed deeply to her mistress. “My lady?”

“Lord Anárion will be addressing the assembled garrison tonight. I need you to write and dispatch messages to the squad leaders informing them of this. Return as soon as you can, for there is news that you will want to hear.” Calerian’s face betrayed nothing about the nature of this news, but Faelros could usually tell when her mistress was very distressed. It had only happened a handful of times, and did not seem to be the case now. 

“Of course, my lady,” Faelros said, and headed back down the hall to the study. She wrote out the messages more slowly than she had meant to, as her fingers refused to stop shaking. Satisfied that her normally perfect handwriting was at least legible, she set out to deliver them at a run, ignoring the stares directed at her by everyone she passed. She did not want to miss a single word of whatever news Lady Calerian and Lord Anárion planned to share.

~

The tension in the room was palpable. Faelros fidgeted uncomfortably from where she stood behind Calerian. In his place behind Lord Anárion’s still-empty chair, Cemendur stared down at the floor, his brow furrowed. Captain Baranor, a dark-haired, sharp-featured man who had known Anárion since they were young men in Atalantë, sat to Anárion’s left, his normally stern expression full of questions. His second-in-command, a Gondorian-born man named Tarciryan, sat between him and Calerian. All five of them waited in silence for Lord Anárion to join them.

At last, the golden-haired lord of Gondor took his seat at the circular table. He was tall, though he did not tower over other men the way Isildur and Elendil did, and he was not particularly intimidating. His open face and sparkling blue eyes conveyed kindness, fairness, and a deep, resolute strength. Just seeing that face made the knot in Faelros’ stomach loosen slightly.

Lord Anárion looked around the table at them all, and addressed them without preamble. “As I am sure you know, today we received some news. Lord Isildur has contacted me to say that the combined armies of King Elendil and the Elven-king Gil-galad have crossed the Misty Mountains and are traveling south along the Anduin. Soon they will join with more elven allies from Lorinand and the Greenwood, and then the entire force will come with all speed to Gondor. They will relieve Osgiliath, and our remaining forces here will join the Alliance for a direct attack on Mordor.”

Silence followed his pronouncement, his words taking a little time to sink in. Faelros had to tense all of her muscles to keep from trembling. Was this truly happening? Was Anárion’s errant brother returning at last to save his people? 

"I understand that this is rather sudden," Lord Anárion continued, "and I have known about the army's intentions for some time. I did not, however, wish to make this common knowledge until it was certain that nothing would hinder them. As they are about to make their rendezvous with the wood-elves, I felt that now was the appropriate time to spread the news." He smiled, and the whole world suddenly seemed a little brighter. 

"When do they expect to arrive?" Captain Baranor asked. After taking some time to collect his thoughts, he seemed unfazed, though Faelros thought he looked far less grim than usual.

"In less than two weeks. They will send a smaller advance force to clear the orcs from the eastern bank, and once Osgiliath is secure we are to join them in their march on Mordor." Anárion sobered slightly. “Though the immediate threat to Gondor and to our families will be eliminated, I realize that this development changes little for most of the soldiers, and that we will in effect be simply exchanging one war for another. But the prospect of many reinforcements and a chance to defeat Sauron once and for all on our own terms lends me strength and renews my spirits somewhat. I hope that you and most of the men will feel the same way.”

Calerian said nothing, clearly up to date on the entire situation already. Cemendur stood with a look of stunned wonder on his face. Faelros, knowing that the last statement was not really directed at her, looked at Baranor and Tarciryan.

Both were nodding, Tarciryan’s expression unchanged, Baranor’s thoughtful. “I believe they will, my lord,” the captain replied. “After five years on the defensive, some of us would not mind laying the siege ourselves for a while. Sauron has much to answer for.” Faelros’ heart twisted as she remembered that Baranor’s wife, son, and brother-in-law had died in the fall of Minas Ithil. How had she managed to forget something like that? 

Anárion acknowledged this comment solemnly, almost certainly drawing the same conclusions as Faelros. The younger lord of Gondor was notorious for knowing everything about every single person he worked closely with, and even some he did not; he had a great memory for names, and one introduction was all that he needed, no matter how brief. And he never failed to take an interest in the lives of others. She had heard some of the soldiers joke that he had a better memory for gossip than anyone else in Gondor, but she knew that they truly trusted Lord Anárion. Faelros trusted him, too. 

“Calerian and I will address the assembled troops this evening,” Anárion said, rising to his feet. Everyone else at the table followed his example. “The squad leaders have been informed, but I am sure you all will have preparations to make.” He smiled that radiant smile at them all, and they were dismissed. 

Faelros and Cemendur followed Calerian out, and waited for her to give them new orders. Instead, she smiled and laid a hand on each of their shoulders. 

“You two, tidy yourselves up,” she said. Faelros remembered (to her horror) that she was still wearing the clothes she had slept in. “I want both of you back here two hours before sundown. Faelros, bring writing materials; you will be recording the transcript of the address.” And with that she turned and began walking back towards her study. 

Faelros and Cemendur stood in the corridor and watched her go, until the sound of her footsteps had faded and she had vanished from sight. Anárion’s door was closed, and Baranor and Tarciryan were long gone. They were alone in the hallway.

They looked at each other, and at the same moment burst into delighted laughter. The two young people jumped up and down, whooping with joy, all thought of dignity forgotten. Cemendur grabbed Faelros’ hands and spun her around until she nearly fell, dizzy and giddy and lightheaded from shock and happiness. It seemed impossible that after all these years, they were really coming back. Cemendur would get to see his father again, and they would be reunited with Ohtar and Estelmo. 

“Come on,” Cemendur said, pulling her towards the stairs. “Let’s get cleaned up. We should really look our best on a day like today!” He laughed that big, booming laugh, the one she hadn’t heard in years. She dashed ahead of him, feeling as though her feet had wings. Laughing, stumbling, and completely unconcerned at how ridiculous they would appear to anyone who saw them, the two friends dashed off to make their preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calerian, Faelros, Baranor, Tarciryan, and Sirilien are original characters. 
> 
> Atalantë is a name for Númenor used by the exiles in Gondor and Arnor after the Fall.


End file.
